Invisible

By Bruce Bracken

A depressed Campbell Hayden nurses a few ales in a Sackets Harbor pub ten miles out of Watertown, New York. After last call, the twenty-nine-year-old leaves the bar and disappears into a whiteout blowing off Lake Ontario. Ending up in Albuquerque, New Mexico, Campbell starts a new life in a multi-hued barrio where a person can live comfortably unnoticed. Campbell settles in quickly, having spent an entire life as an invisible - "It's not that people can't see me," Campbell reveals, "mostly they just don't...While it is human nature to want to shine, or to prostrate or prostitute oneself in order to achieve notice, or even to garner a glimmer of envy in the eyes of family or friends, I've accepted that such self-illuminating strivings, at least for me, are folly. I am invisible."

Campbell's otherwise ascetic life in the barrio is dramatically transformed by several incidents. In response to these affronts, Campbell devises a plan to become visible, and accepts that substantial physical, emotional, and interpersonal life-style changes will be necessary in order to be seen. Along with these personal sacrifices, Campbell bravely disregards the dangers of standing out in full view. As a stunning, larger-than-life visible, Campbell forges true love, but also creates mortal enemies. Campbell's newfound visibility, love, and enemies cannot coexist - the question is who will survive?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Coventry House Publishing
• Release date: Mar 6, 2015

Bruce Bracken

Bruce Bracken, Ph.D., is a psychologist and professor at The College of William and Mary in Williamsburg, Virginia. During his career, Bruce has published scores of articles, books, curricula, and psychological tests. Bruce is a Fellow of the American Psychological Association in the Division of School Psychology and the Division of Child and Adolescent Psychology, and he is a Charter Fellow of the American Educational Research Association. Additionally, Bruce is the co-founder of The Journal of Psychoeducational Assess-ment and has served as co-editor of the journal for more than twenty years. Bruce has received such prestigious awards as the Senior Scientist Award by the American Psychological Association, the Distin-guished Faculty Award by the University of Memphis, and the Lifetime Achievement Award by his alma ma-ter, The University of Georgia.

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Contents

One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight | Nine | Ten | Eleven | Twelve | Thirteen | Fourteen | Fifteen | Sixteen | Seventeen | Eighteen | Nineteen | Twenty | Twenty-one | Twenty-two | Twenty-three | Twenty-four | Twenty-five | Twenty-six | Twenty-seven | Twenty-eight | Twenty-nine | Thirty

Acknowledgements

About the Author

1

I was born invisible—as invisible as a panhandler on Rodeo Drive or a raving lunatic in Times Square. Unlike these latter unfortunates, however, I’ve been invisible all my life. It’s not that people can’t see me; mostly, they just don’t. For some reason, others seem not to take in the image that has peered back at me from my bathroom mirror for the past twenty-nine years: a reserved smile; straight teeth; moss green eyes; short sandy-blonde hair; and a complexion free of blemishes. All of those personal features, embodied in a frame that has always been somewhat underdeveloped, are what I see. Conversely, if I could see myself as I might appear to you, I would most certainly vanish before my own eyes.

Oddly though, Katie saw me. Somehow she noticed me before I was aware of her. Like a dowser with a divining rod for the forlorn, Katie singled me out of a large group of employees and contractors at a work-related gathering. I was feeling out of place, so conspicuous in my invisibility as to be practically front and center before all who attended the function. I was preparing to steal away when a lithe brunette approached smiling, not at all sympathetically either, bearing two glasses of Chardonnay. She extended a fluted glass. Hi, I’m Katie.

Katie, it turned out, was a computer vendor for the office supply company for which I worked. I hadn’t met her before, but she appeared friendly and I accepted the offered wine, wondering why I was doing something so uncharacteristic of me. As I received the drink she ran a finger across my palm. You’re not having any fun are you?

I shrugged, embarrassed that my personal discomfort had been so obvious. She ignored my chagrin and enthused, "Okay then, my goal is to see to it that you stay until the party ends and that you have a good time!"

Katie looked fantastic in the business-casual charcoal slacks and form-fitting black cashmere sweater she’d selected for the party. Being slightly taller than she, I was distracted by the voluptuous expanse of exposed skin above the sweater’s low-cut neckline, nestled just beneath her upturned face.

I looked away and stammered. Umm, Hi, I’m Campbell…Campbell Hayden.

Given her mature style and confident approach, Katie seemed to be at least a couple of years older than I. She put her arm around my shoulder, as a comforting older sister might, and pulled me near. Ignoring my embarrassment, she beamed. All right then, Campbell, let’s get to know each other.

As she released me from her casual hug and lowered her hand, her fingertips brushed along my back and across my bottom. Questioning whether the graze was accidental, my eyes sought hers as soon as I felt her slight touch. When our gazes met, she winked.

Katie was effervescent. She talked mostly about herself, but asked questions when I lagged or stumbled over what next to say. She described a convoluted life story expressed in hushed tones, often leaning into me to whisper details she didn’t want to become public. Those intimate particulars, however, were revealed with no hint of hesitation; her unguarded and sometimes scandalous exposé was refreshing and in an odd way enviable.

Katie’s tale revealed an astonishing, at least compared to my mundane existence, series of dramatic relationships. The unfortunate woman had trusted her heart to one person after another, only to have it ripped from her bosom each time. Every one of her fairy-tale relationships ended catastrophically, seemingly a result of her misguided trust in others. Katie’s eyes brightened when she assured me that in each heartrending instance she was rescued by some sympathetic soul who appeared at just the right moment. But her eyes dimmed once more when she concluded that so far each hero had turned out to be the source of her next heartache. With her hand cupping my elbow, she urged me closer and confided, Campbell, I’m sick of my life. All I want is for someone to love me as much as they love themselves. If only I could meet someone who’d think of me first, at least once in a while. You know? Is that too much to ask?

After disclosing this reasonable sounding quest, Katie buried her face in trembling hands. On impulse, I reached forward and drew her against my chest, Come on, Katie, I whispered, …your mascara is going to run. You don’t want everyone seeing your makeup-streaked cheeks, do you?

She pulled away, laughing in gasps, You’re right. I can’t allow past relationships to spoil my future, or my mascara, can I? Someday somebody will love me totally…don’t you think?

What did I know about love or perfect relationships? I had had neither. Despite my inexperience in romance, I nodded while squeezing Katie’s shoulder. Why I wanted to affirm this romantic’s wish, doubting such a life would be in my future, I’ll never know.

Katie purred demurely, You’re such a good listener. I really appreciate it. Thanks, Campbell. She clutched my hand, I mean it. Thank you so much for listening to me prattle on all evening. I guess I needed a sympathetic ear, and you’ve been wonderful.

Katie was true to her word–she remained with me until the party ended, and to my surprise and relief, I truly enjoyed myself; so much so that when the celebration was drawing to a close I barely noticed that guests were mingling near the exit, sharing hugs and goodbyes. When Katie and I were among the handful of people last to leave, I wondered whether any of the stragglers noticed me, the party’s self-conscious introvert, strolling out the door with Katie, feeling pretty damn visible!

Neither of us was willing to cede the evening’s end, so we headed up the block in search of a nightcap with Katie leading the way. She seemed to know where she was going, so I followed along without questioning where I was being led. We ended up in a standing-room-only bar named Jackleg; a place abuzz with chatter and a celebratory odor of spilled beer.

Once inside, Katie steered me toward a dark, back-wall corner, a cozy respite from the frenetic bar scene. After releasing my hand she gave my forearm a sensual stroke and then leaned near to talk, her lips grazing my earlobe. Through cupped hands, she said, Hold this spot. I’ll get us something to drink.

Before I could reach for my wallet, Katie was weaving through the crowd like a regular. I was envious of how gracefully she moved among the bar patrons. She touched one man’s shoulder to slide past, smiled and winked at another as she said, Excuse me, and tickled yet another guy’s ribs to get him to yield space. I couldn’t hear her place our order, but I was surprised at how the barmaid beamed when Katie approached.

Katie returned with a tall red beverage in each hand held at shoulder height, showcasing her busty figure. Noticing my raised eyebrows, she giggled, Raspberry Mojitos.

We settled into the tight corner. Katie sat half-on and half-off a bar stool, shoulders against adjacent walls; I stood facing her, with the crowd behind me. With a Mojito in one hand, Katie rested her other hand casually on my hip. She then edged her fingertips into the front of my waistband and summoned me forward with a slight bent-finger tug. I submitted to the subtle invitation and closed the distance between us.

Katie set her right foot on the floor squarely before her, anchoring her in place. With her left foot resting on the stool’s chrome rung, she edged her knee against my inner thigh, her every intention telegraphed through that sole electrified point of contact, or so I imagined. Honestly, I believed Katie’s casual touches portended nothing more than her carefree affability. After all, what romantic interest would a beautiful, outgoing woman have in me, a tentative, self-conscious invisible?

After a bit, I reluctantly withdrew from my tantalizing location to chase after the second round. I returned to find Katie playfully engaged with a couple of guys at the pinball machine beside us. Her alcohol-induced titter had elicited flirtatious banter from the pair, but despite their interest and her mischievous behavior, her longing gaze that evening was fixed on me alone.

After forty-five minutes or so of relaxed conversation, Katie threw back the last of her second Mojito, handed the empty glass to one of the pinball players teasingly, and fanned herself with a drink napkin. I’ve had enough, Campbell…how about you? What do you say—let’s get out of here.

Although I didn’t resist her effort to uproot me from our snug corner, I dallied, not wanting the evening to end. Her touch and rapt attention had been more human contact than I’d experienced in years—possibly ever—and I feared as the midnight hour was about to strike, tomorrow would bring forth a day no different from all my past todays. I was despondent at the thought of going to bed and waking up anonymous once more.

Katie hadn’t picked up on my reluctance. She was headed toward the door, and I had no choice but to follow. The two gamers ogled Katie’s rear when she stopped mid-floor and wriggled into her shawl; I donned my blazer and closed ranks behind her. I was determined to extend my brief soirée with the visible world as long as possible, as well as shelter the naïve woman from the gamers’ licentious stare.

When we entered the bar earlier in the evening I hadn’t noticed the small park across the street. But it appeared Katie had. While I hovered within the bar’s alcove, buttoning my sport jacket against the chill, preparing to leave, Katie pulled her wrap tight around her shoulders and then whirled and waltzed through the stop-and-go traffic to the other side of the street. From the opposite curb, she spun mirthfully and waved me over. While I zigzagged through the on-coming cars, Katie slipped into the park.

Standing before the park’s entrance, I paused. The cool air had cleared my head and a detached glint of mindfulness warned where Katie’s trail was likely to lead—down a potentially perilous path I’d never before tread. I confess, however, my flicker of doubt immediately vanished, and despite my previous reservations I entered the darkness.

I found Katie waiting on a bench within the shadows of the park’s centrally located fountain. She welcomed me with one hand held out and patted the slatted seat beside her with the other. I took her hand and sat, leaving a foot or so between us. Without comment she slid sideways until our hips touched. Easing my palpable trepidation, Katie leaned back and revisited the tranquil conversation we’d left in the bar. Tell me about your family.

While I gave a thumbnail description of Mom, Dad, and the twins, Katie snuggled closer and laid her head on my shoulder. My senses awakened to the smell of her perfume; her murmured sighs and occasional comments delighted my ear, and her every breath raised the hairs on my neck. After cuddling side-by-side for a pleasant few minutes, Katie twisted toward me, pressing her ample chest against my arm. With the palm of her hands now on my leg, she shivered while warming her fingers against downy flannel. We stared into the darkness, no longer talking. Anticipatory static hissed in my ears, heralding that which even I knew was bound to transpire. Inviting the inevitable, I closed my legs against Katie’s hands, sandwiching her fingers between my thighs.

To this day I’m uncertain how our first kiss came about, whether Katie or I made the initial move. The hour was late, we’d had a lot to drink, and the outing turned out to be much longer and more intense than I had anticipated, so my memory is foggy. My spotty recollection, however, is that Katie had nodded toward a couple leaning against a tree in a tight embrace. I followed her gaze, and like two voyeurs we gawked at the couple’s groping, erotic kiss.

When I turned back to Katie, she slid her hand to the nape of my neck and drew my face toward hers. She hesitated for a few tender seconds, and then ever so slightly touched her lips to mine. Her kiss was as gentle as a baby’s breath; so soft, I wasn’t certain I’d been kissed. Each successive pairing of our lips, however, grew increasingly more passionate, until our tongues sought each other like two mating serpents.

The evening was so perfect it seemed Katie and I were destined to be together—she sensed and responded innately to my every unspoken desire. Her bold moves were exhilarating and her timing was so precise as to almost appear rehearsed. I welcomed Katie’s advances throughout the evening and responded with equal, if somewhat graceless fervor.

We made out on the park bench, exploring each other’s bodies, oblivious to the deepening late-night chill. When our yearnings had become feverish, Katie whispered, Please…Campbell…spend the night with me.

2

That incredible evening marked the beginning of our intense relationship; it was the most memorable night of our five-month liaison and the last time we visited the bar where it all began.

During the next few weeks my doubts resurfaced and I wrestled internally over what I had gotten involved in. Although I wasn’t comfortable with the choice I’d made, I couldn’t let Katie go. She was sublimely seductive, making me feel more alive and visible than I’d ever felt before, but she could also be cunning and cruel. When angry she’d fan my fears of invisibility by reminding me it was she who illuminated me. And without her I was nothing.

Katie, I came to learn, had insatiable needs and was expert at granting rewards and exacting punishments for my respective successes and failures at meeting them. She soon had me willing to sacrifice all of my personal interests—reading Camus and other French authors, collecting materials for my miniature Japanese gardens, taking weekend hikes—to fulfill her every whim. I dedicated myself to making Katie happy. Don’t get me wrong, my sacrifice wasn’t altruistic, for I reveled in the newfound sense of visibility that was part of being in Katie’s presence. But it was soon apparent that when Katie was happy, my world was bliss; when Katie was displeased, life was hell. In spite of giving up everything important to me, I often failed to make Katie smile. Yet, notwithstanding my self-doubts and the excruciating pain inflicted by Katie, I continued to rationalize that being with her hurt too good to quit.

Katie’s demands quickly expanded beyond my ability to satisfy them. Her day-to-day histrionics became draining; her tantrums unbearable. I grappled with soothing her frayed emotions as she spiraled out of control, but her erratic behavior varied such that I could never predict what she would need on any particular day, let alone any given moment. I was frantic to please her and found myself responding to her demands as furiously and futilely as a gamer striking at the elusive subterranean Whack-a-Mole creatures in an arcade.

I desperately wanted to provide Katie the support she needed, but she frequently threw me off kilter with irrational fears, doubts, complaints—mostly, unspoken qualms I was supposed to somehow intuit and allay. Her emotional unbalance was contagious; my own anxiety began to overwhelm me as I struggled to anticipate her needs, unwilling to accept I was an abject failure as a mind-reading psychic. Even prescribed medications did little to quiet my unraveled nerves.

Within a couple of months, it was clear I had ceased to be Katie’s lover; I was her personal firefighter, extinguishing the conflagrations she seemed to ignite for no purpose other than a high-octane emotional rush. In this sense, Katie was a pyromaniac, and I had become caught up in a neurotic life of battling an arsonist’s never-ending string of dramatic blazes.

Katie’s destructive behaviors increased exponentially and I was no longer able to care for her by myself, or even care for myself. I slept poorly, ate little, and bathed irregularly. I am embarrassed to confess my impotence, but Katie had become a two-alarm emergency and extinguishing her wildfires now required someone in addition to me. With unabashed disregard for my desperation, Katie began to solicit the aid of one or another friend whenever my energy flagged or my efforts failed. With this second person taking over, Katie rubbed my nose in every failure.

Initially flowers or a bottle of wine would appease Katie for my limitations. She would gush over my thoughtfulness and shower me with fawning attention, forgiving me for not meeting her needs. She’d snuggle close and tell me how much she appreciated my being there for her. We’d make love, and I’d feel visible again. But soon flowers, wine, or sentimental trinkets were not enough to bring me back into her graces. Katie was floating away at an alarming rate, and in response my gut tossed and my heart sank, but there was nothing I could do to reverse the tide. She had slipped from my grasp and the current was increasing the distance between us, leaving me alone and adrift.

One evening in late January, Katie and I invited several couples to her place for wine and fondue. When company arrived, Katie took their coats and greeted each as if she were alone, without a date. Despite my efforts to elicit her attention throughout the evening, she snubbed me. To our guests, she projected the warmth of June; toward me a January chill blew all night. No one seemed to notice; Katie had seduced our friends.

Katie’s flirtatious attention became centered on one guest, David, a friend whose date, Charlene, was new to our group. Mid-evening, the woman who had been ignored by David as I had by Katie, was on the brink of coming apart. David hadn’t touched her at all and dismissed her every comment. During most of the party Charlene sat silently on the sofa, hands in her lap, studying the opposite wall. David didn’t seem to notice her distress, but Katie certainly did.

Apparently anxious to get away, Charlene asked David to get their coats and gloves as soon as the other couples began preparing to leave, but David lingered on the sofa, continuing to ignore her. On Charlene’s resigned sigh, I retrieved the couple’s belongings, motioned Charlene to the foyer, and helped her into her coat. When David noticed his date standing with her hand on the doorknob, he bitched, Well, damn, Campbell! It looks like I’m leaving whether I want to or not. Thanks!

I ignored David’s peeve and frankly was happy to have caused him the irritation. Charlene and I survived the party, barely, but David and Katie’s lingering goodbye embrace was too much for either of us to watch. While Katie and David clung to each other in drunken passion, Charlene waved a grimaced goodbye and stepped into the exterior hallway. The woman was sensible, and I knew tonight was the last I, or likely David for that matter, would see of her. As Charlene closed the door behind her, I sulked into the kitchen with an armload of dishes.

When Katie waltzed into the room, I was leaning against the island and staring at a stark winter scene out the window, my arms wrapped protectively across my chest.

Ignoring my obvious hurt and anger, Katie bubbled on in her typical saucy manner about how fabulous the evening had gone. I took a deep breath, determined to share my bruised feelings and admonish her for being rude to Charlene, and to me. I knew in taking this tack I risked instigating yet another of Katie’s dreaded explosive episodes. Despite my reservations, I charged ahead, Damn it, Katie…shut up! Do you have any idea how shitty your indiscriminate flirtations made Charlene and me feel tonight?

Katie smirked. She had anticipated the confrontation,